


Sink or Swim

by dizzzylu



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Skinny Dipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:23:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles goes for a swim. He's not the only one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sink or Swim

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dedougal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/gifts).



> Written for akadougal as part of [fandomaid's]() Hurricane Sandy relief. Wendy didn't leave me any prompts, but I know how much she likes her wet!boys. Plus, I've been wanting to write something inspired by [this (NSFW) pic](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mbpsy4sNdH1rbmnm5o1_500.jpg) for a lo-o-o-ng time. Of course, that particular pose didn't show up in this fic, so I guess I'll have to try again. Oh, darn! ;) Thanks for bidding on me, bb!! ♥
> 
> Thanks, too, to Devildoll for the beta! I went and made some changes after that, so any remaining mistakes are my own.

Stiles runs.

He's not running from a werewolf, or a kanima, or one of the dozens of other supernatural beasties he's been reading about while translating the bestiary. He isn't running because a rogue hunter is after a werewolf sympathizer. He isn't even running because Finstock ordered the team to do suicides until they drop.

No, he's running because he almost took down Erica during the training session the day before. Erica, who may not be big like Boyd, but is scrappy and not afraid to fight dirty. Who fights like she means it, even though Stiles is a squishy human. Who flashes gold eyes and a feral grin and aims straight for Stiles' jugular every time. He almost put her down, and next time, he's determined to lose the 'almost'.

He also runs because he's a masochist, but mostly it's about Erica.

The sun is hot on his back, the humidity stifling, but Stiles pushes on, past the burn in his legs and his lungs, past stinging eyes and a dry mouth, following the winding path Derek cleared through the deepest part of the preserve. Each footfall resonates up Stiles' spine, urging him forward, always forward, don't look back.

Something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye, something glittering in between thick tree trunks. Stiles can't see it full on, doesn't want to take his eyes away from what's in front of him, but he soon realizes the path meanders in the right direction, bringing him closer and closer until, suddenly, it empties out onto a wide stretch of empty forest floor and a small slice of sand. Just beyond it is a lake -- pond? -- glittering under the late afternoon sun.

Stiles scans the area for familiar landmarks, but comes up empty; the paths Derek plotted throughout the land behind his house wander all over, crisscrossing every which way so no two runs are ever exactly the same. It's okay for werewolves who have super sniffers to find their way home. Not so great for humans who don't. Stiles isn't entirely sure he's still in the preserve anymore. He doesn't recall ever seeing a hidden lake before.

And it _is_ a lake, with a jagged cliff cutting into the middle of it, far enough that Stiles can't tell how far to his left the lake extends, even after he toes off his shoes and socks and steps in, shin-deep, the water clear and cool as he splashes it on his face and chest, calm under the windless day.

Stiles looks around again and plucks at the neck of his shirt, peeling away sweat-soaked cotton to let his skin breathe. He's fairly certain he can find his way closer to the Hale property if he follows the trail back the way he came, and a quick cool-down is exactly what he needs to recharge his batteries.

He leaves his clothes and shoes in a sweaty heap in the shade of the trees and says a silent apology to the minnows darting around his feet before he wades in full tilt, arms and legs flailing.

The water is colder the farther out he goes, but he adjusts quickly, dipping under again and again to scrub the sweat from his scalp, until he feels cool and clean, his long hair clinging to his scalp. He ducks under one more time to slick it back, then surfaces to left himself float on his back.

It's calming to let himself shift and sway with the tiny waves, water lapping at his ears. Every so often, he feels the tickle of seaweed on his leg or his foot, and he swishes an arm around to change his position. The sun is warm on his front, but the lake is cold at his back, and Stiles zones out to the bright sounds of the birds in the forest.

He doesn't open his eyes until a shadow blots out the sun, and he looks up to find the cliff that splits the lake almost in two. Now that he's on the other side, Stiles can see the lake is large; goes on for another half a mile, at least. It's as peaceful on the other side as it was where Stiles came upon, but movement out of the corner of his eye draws Stiles' attention toward the farthest bank and he drops his legs down to tread water.

He has to squint his eyes to focus, but he can see it, just out of his range of vision: something slicing through the water in neat, even strokes. Stiles blinks the water from his eyes and changes his position to get out of the sun. From this angle, Stiles can make out the perfect arch of two arms breaking the surface in a grueling rhythm, and a quick flash of something farther back; what must be feet pumping through the water.

Stiles edges closer, ducked down in the water as far as he can be without inhaling it. The glare from the sun is blinding, and whoever the person is has their back to Stiles, but Stiles thinks he recognizes those arms, the dark hair plastered to the scalp. It isn't until the person swims into the shade that Stiles knows for sure, can make out the tell-tale swirl of ink on his back.

Watching Derek's back work is mesmerizing, each muscle sliding smoothly under wet, flawless skin. Derek's shoulders and arms, too, bunching and flexing with each powerful stroke; Stiles swallows around a lump in his throat. Though they've been doing the reluctant-friends-with-benefits thing for the better part of three months, Stiles doesn't know what those muscles feel like under his hands and his mouth, only really knows how narrow Derek's waist is with Stiles' legs wrapped around it and how hot Derek's mouth is when Stiles' dick is in it.

The problem is, he kind of wants to know. Wants to take his time and taste all that skin. Catalogue all the ways in which he can make Derek insane with a strategic application of teeth and tongue and blunt human fingernails. But post-supernatural battle, adrenalin-fueled sex doesn't lend itself to slow exploration and dragging things out. And Stiles has no clue how to transition from one to the other without coming off like a needy, inexperienced kid.

So he takes advantage of what he's given by watching Derek move through the water in a demanding rhythm. A voice in Stiles' head tells him what he's doing is kind of creepy, but he consoles himself with the knowledge that Derek used to lurk like a champion creeper and nobody but Stiles ever said a thing about it.

"Turnabout is absolutely fair play," he mutters into the water, then winces when he remembers: super-wolfy hearing powers. But there is no stutter to Derek's pace, no outward sign that he's paying attention to anything other than the coordination of his arms and legs and breathing. Stiles sighs and dips under the water to cool his face.

However, as enjoyable as it is to watch Derek be Derek, Stiles soon discovers that treading water is tiring, even if he _doesn't_ have two hundred pounds of paralyzed werewolf clinging to him for dear life. Probably, his exhaustion isn't helped by the running Stiles did beforehand, either, or the sun sinking toward the tree line.

He gives half a thought to swimming back around the cliff to collect his clothes and gusts out a breath, giving Derek and his body a final silent farewell. A lazy doggy paddle gets him about halfway around before something brushes against his foot. He kicks out at it, expecting seaweed or an over-eager fish, and hits something solid. Whirling, he flails his leg out again and something clamps around his ankle, tight and unforgiving, pulling him underneath the water.

Stiles doesn't stay under for long; whatever it is doesn't drag him so much as tug and immediately let go. He splutters at the surface, though, forcing the water out of his nose with hard, fast exhales. Fists rubbing the water from his eyes, he coughs out a rough, "What the hell?!" and splays his arms out wide, hoping to hit whatever attacked him.

He hears his name, quiet but firm, and a hand closes around each wrist. "Calm down."

"So you did hear me," Stiles says, tugging out of Derek's grip, frowning. "Could've said something."

Derek arches one of his ridiculous eyebrows. "So could you."

"I was just leaving. You can go back to--" Stiles waves a hand around "--whatever you were doing." Stiles makes to leave, but then can't help himself from turning back to ask, "Why _are_ you here, anyway? Don't your workouts usually take place in the burnt out shell of your house?"

Derek presses his lips together and doesn't say anything for a long moment, long enough for Stiles to study what he can see of Derek -- basically from the shoulders up. Here, away from his house and his alpha responsibilities, he looks younger, more fragile. Soft along his sharp edges with his slicked-back hair and spiky eyelashes. Even his shoulders seem smaller; broad, still, but not as imposing. Probably because Derek can't loom over Stiles, can't crowd him against a wall or a tree or -- like that one really awesome time – against the Jeep.

"Too hot," Derek says eventually. Then, "How'd you end up out here? Kind of far from home, don't you think?"

"Insert Little Red Riding joke here?" Stiles smirks at Derek's blank look. "Yeah, no. I was on a run. You remember the paths you cleared for us? Found the lake, decided to cool down before heading home."

Derek nods. "Anxious to get the drop on Erica?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Stiles sniffs. He turns to leave, but Derek's hand is warm on his ankle again. Not pulling, just holding.

"You can stay," he says, quiet. He adds, "If you want," after Stiles turns and arches an eyebrow.

"Do you _want_ me to stay?" Stiles asks, because he's not one to linger where he's not wanted, but Derek only asks for what he really wants if someone leads him to it first. Which is a lot of work, Stiles won't lie, but the payoff is usually worth it.

Like now, with Derek giving him a short nod and swimming away. He does a little bounce in the water, lifting himself up by forcing his arms down, then hunches over and dives in. The move means Derek's ass breaks the surface and—

 _Oh_. Well.

Stiles swallows hard and shouts, "Words are people, too, Derek!" before he follows suit, mimicking Derek's sleek move with as little flailing as possible. He's sure it's nowhere near as graceful as Derek was, but it gets the job done.

Derek moves slower, which means Stiles can almost keep up with him, then stops when they get about ten feet out from the bank. There's no beach on this side; trees crowding the water's edge where their roots tangle together. The seaweed is thicker, too, tickling Stiles' shins with every movement.

There's a long few moments where he and Derek's eyebrows have a staring contest, which Derek's eyebrows inevitably win, and Stiles says, "Well, this is awesome. So glad I stayed." He doesn't know what he's supposed to do, and Derek never gives any indication about what he's planning -- usually because his plans suck and Stiles always argues a way out of them -- but the light's fading and they're in the shade now, and they are both _naked_. Stiles knows what he'd _like_ to be doing, but Derek is way over there, and in the water isn't the easiest place for sex, Stiles is pretty sure.

One minute, Derek is treading water, staring at Stiles with the eyebrows of doom, and the next, he's under the water with his arm around Stiles knees. Stiles yelps, hands plunging beneath the water, searching for Derek's shoulders. In one smooth move, Derek rises up, lifting Stiles at the same time, and tosses him into the water a few feet away.

Stiles fights his way to the top, spluttering, "Derek! What the fuck?!?" before he finds himself under the water again, Derek wrapped around his chest this time, pulling Stiles down only to let him back up with a shove to his back. Stiles kicks away from him and blinks the water from his eyes to find Derek flashing him a grin from several yards away.

"You're an asshole," Stiles yells, but he's laughing and ducking underneath the water to seek his revenge.

It's not easy to tussle with Derek on a good day, with his super speed and keen senses, he's always one step ahead of Stiles, with or without Stiles' burgeoning magic. In the water is worse, though. Stiles can't get a grip to save his life and there's nowhere for him to plant his feet to gain some leverage. He manages to stave Derek off a few times by using his arm to create a tidal wave in Derek's face, but mostly he just ends up under water, or racing to the surface in a flurry of limbs. The failure is worth it, though, for the snatches of Derek's laughter Stiles gets every time he clears the water.

Eventually, Stiles cries 'uncle' and pushes himself off of Derek's chest with a foot, floating away to catch his breath. Derek shifts into a float, too, and Stiles can feel the occasional swell of Derek's arm moving to stay in Stiles' general radius.

"So you _do_ know how to have fun," Stiles asks, smiling and a little breathless. It's cool in the shade and a light breeze has picked up now that the sun is mostly down. He shivers and a rash of goose bumps break out over his skin.

"Training should occur in all types of environments," Derek says.

Stiles flicks water at Derek's face and says, "Whatever helps you sleep at night, dude." He looks over to give Derek a warm smile, but Derek's closer than Stiles thought, and a little unforgiving, too; he surges up, wraps an arm tight around Stiles, and rolls them. Stiles doesn't struggle as much as he should; his arms and legs are tired and he knows Derek would never intentionally hurt him, even if they _were_ training and not wrestling around in the water like teenagers.

Derek doesn't let him go as they surface. They're face to face and close enough for their noses to bump, both of them treading water, even though Derek's hold on Stiles is enough to keep him up. But the way their legs tangle together is nice, familiar. This close, Derek's eyes are wide and intent, framed with dark, spiky eyelashes that Stiles wants to brush his fingers along. He shivers again, but not from the cold; he's not really paying attention to where his legs are going until one slips between Derek's, and Stiles can feel the hard line of Derek's cock against his thigh.

"You cold?" Derek asks, one hand slicking down Stiles' back.

"No?" Stiles says it like a question because he is and he isn't; his front is warm everywhere Derek touches him, but he can't stop shivering anyway, hands clenched tight on Derek's shoulders.

"Doesn't seem like something that should be a question," Derek says, and his other arm wraps around Stiles waist, pulling him closer. To accommodate the move, Stiles' legs widen, creating a space for Derek to slot between. Behind Derek, Stiles' ankles lock together.

It seems so natural, then, for Stiles to lean forward and kiss Derek. To slide his hand along Derek's shoulder and up his neck, to tangle his fingers in thick, wet hair. To tilt Derek's head and kiss him slow and careful. And Derek answers in kind, which is a startling new development in the Stiles-and-Derek relationship.

Stiles is used to kissing hard and fast, all sharp (human) teeth and ferocious tongue. Claw holes in some of his best shirts and jeans that barely survive. Pushing and shoving and bitten off curses, Derek with his hot hand tight around Stiles' cock, all but ordering Stiles to _fucking come already_.

This is different. This is what Stiles has always wondered about: what it feels like when they _haven't_ just run for their lives or pulled off a complicated spell. When their growly, snarky frenzy isn't fed by adrenalin and a need to reassure the other that they're still alive.

Stiles isn't a sap by any stretch of the imagination, but he knows sex isn't always about need. It can be about want, too, and that seems to be what's happening now as he takes his time exploring Derek's mouth. It kind of blows Stiles' mind a little bit, that Derek is letting Stiles do this, but he's not going to waste time on that when Derek is making those hot little noises low in his throat; soft, rumbling grunts that vibrate from Derek into Stiles and straight down to his dick.

Vaguely, Stiles registers a slow, lazy movement and chalks it up to the natural swell and drop of the water. It's doing amazing things for his cock right now, pushing him up against Derek's stomach in small pulses, so it's like he's humping Derek, only not.

But then Derek's arm moves, Stiles' hand along with it, and Stiles comes up for air in a soft gasp to find the two of them closer to the lake's edge, Derek's arms stretched out along a gnarly tree root to anchor them in place.

"Good idea," Stiles rasps, and dives in again, kissing Derek over and over until all he can taste is heat and all he knows is the feel of Derek's tongue sliding against his own. Stiles realizes, with a hysterical little laugh Derek eagerly swallows, that he could do this all day, kiss and kiss and kiss Derek until his face is raw and his hands cramp and his lungs want to burst. It's good, _so_ good, but Stiles wants more. Wants to taste everything Derek will allow.

Derek groans as Stiles grinds into him, drags his teeth along Derek's jaw to feel the rasp of stubble tickle his tongue. With the position they're in, Derek's dick is between Stiles' legs, the head nudging Stiles in the thigh with every rise and fall of the water. It's hot on his skin, and for one brief second, Stiles wishes they weren't in the lake so he could crawl down and suck that heat into his mouth, feel the weight of it on his tongue.

Stiles works his way along Derek's body instead, pulling himself away and down until their cocks are more or less lined up. One hand stays on Derek's shoulder, to keep himself somewhat tethered, but he wraps the other around Derek's cock, thumb circling the foreskin so he can see Derek arch and squirm, his throat golden in the fading sunlight.

Usually, this is where Derek would set a brutal rhythm, jerking Stiles off with fast, harsh tugs, until Stiles' orgasm rocks through him in a blinding fast rush that leaves him breathless and stupid. But Stiles is not Derek. Stiles is curious, and working over Derek's uncut cock is not a thing to be rushed, even if Derek's restless hips are his way of urging Stiles on. It throws off any pace Stiles is trying to set, but Stiles is okay with that. It only means this'll be dragged out longer.

His only regret is that it's getting dark now, and he can't see the smooth back-and-forth of Derek's foreskin through the clear water. Derek's face makes up for it, though; Stiles is pretty sure he's never seen Derek blush or bite his lip in his life. He's kind of proud of that.

Stiles thumbing at Derek's slit finally has Derek yelling out a curse, loud and hoarse and perfect. His hips give a wild buck, too, and Stiles has to grip tight to Derek's hip to keep from rolling off. But then Derek locks it all down again, teeth grinding together, eyes squeezed shut. The rise and fall of Derek's chest is fast and powerful, and Stiles splays his hand there, over Derek's heart, to feel its rushing beat.

Stiles is so focused on everything he can get his hands on, Derek's low, "Touch yourself" startles him to stillness. Derek lets out a harsh breath.

"I can't dude," Stiles says, voice sounding darker than Stiles expected. He licks his lips and tries again. "I need one hand to hang on to you."

"C'mere," Derek grunts, reaching for Stiles' slick shoulder. He can't get a hold, but Stiles understands once Derek's legs sink. It puts them in a sort of standing position, albeit with Stiles legs wound snug around Derek.

With nothing touching his cock except cool frictionless water, Stiles hadn't realized how hard he was. Now, pressed all along Derek's front, with Derek's wet wanting mouth not even a breath away, Stiles shudders and gets his hand around himself.

"This isn't going to take very long," Stiles croaks, his lips and nose bumping against Derek's.

This close, Derek's eyes are dark and startlingly clear. He growls out, "good," before surging into Stiles for a desperate, biting kiss.

Instinct has Stiles circling his fingers around both their dicks and setting a new rhythm; clumsy, but faster. Tighter. _Better_. He slings his other arm around Derek's neck for balance, face buried in the crook of Derek's shoulder, where Stiles hides his gasps and licks at cool, clean skin.

It takes Stiles longer than he thought to come; the taste and feel of Derek helping Stiles hold back on that little twisting motion he loves so much. Too soon, though, he's buzzing with need, his hips moving to fuck into his hand, and then the head of Derek's cock bumps up underneath Stiles' and it's all over.

Stiles sinks his teeth into Derek's shoulder to keep from crying out as he shakes and shudders and finally goes limp. Derek's body stiffens a second later, and his hand closes around Stiles', tightening the circle of his fingers.

He sounds different than usual when he comes; Stiles just aware enough to take in Derek's desperate grunts, little broken sounds gusting over Stiles' ear. Not that Derek's normal ferocious roar isn't hot as fuck, but this is nice, too. New and different. Quiet.

"Didn't know you had it in you," Stiles says into Derek's neck, his tongue still searching for smooth skin, for the taste of Derek. Derek's head falls back against the root they're anchored to and Stiles takes the opportunity to nip little kisses over Derek's Adam's apple.

"What?" Derek asks. Stiles likes the vibration of it against his lips.

There are a dozen things Stiles could say to that, but he goes with the safe choice: "To not let out your mighty alpha roar. The whole forest doesn't need to know when you're coming."

Derek doesn't answer for a long while. Stiles takes advantage of the time by running blunt fingernails along Derek's spine and shoulders, over his ass and up his side, following each groove of Derek's ribs with a stunning amount of concentration. He leans forward to nose along Derek's neck and jaw, scraping his teeth along the way. A pass over the skin under Derek's ear has him trembling in Stiles' grasp; Stiles grins and does it again.

"I was just waiting for you to take initiative," Derek says eventually, in reply to all the things Stiles _isn't_ saying.

"I got initiative right here, baby," Stiles purrs, palming a handful of Derek's ass. The joke makes no sense and his heart probably gives him away, but it doesn't matter. Stiles refuses to be a whiny, needy, clingy _kid_ who requires constant reassurance about where he stands in peoples' lives.

He pushes off of Derek in a flurry of clumsy, tired limbs and sets off toward his clothes in a lazy dog paddle. A hand around his ankle stops him. _Again_.

"Derek, c'mon," he wheedles, half-heartedly trying to tug out of Derek's grip. It's no use.

Derek reels Stiles in until they're chest to chest, one of Derek's hands spread wide over the small of Stiles' back to hold them together. Stiles tries not to think about how natural it feels for his legs to fit themselves around Derek's hips.

"We're doing this again," Derek says, his eyes dark and intent, shadowed in the moonlight.

Stiles wants to look away from the weight of them, but he can't, fingers fiddling with the hair at Derek's nape. "This specifically?" he asks, gesturing at the lake with his free hand. "'Cause I'm uh, kind of—"

Derek pulls him into a kiss, all sharp teeth and fierce heat and Derek's wicked tongue. He pulls away for a breath and Stiles takes a moment for his brain to reboot.

"—wrinkly," Stiles squeaks out, to Derek's satisfied smirk. Stiles kind of wants to kiss if off Derek's stupid, handsome face.

"Anywhere you want," Derek answers, with a dirty roll of his hips.

Stiles groans at the interested twist in his gut. "You cannot _say_ things like that!"

Derek's "Why not?" is muffled by Stiles' skin caught between Derek's teeth.

"Because," Stiles breathes out, slow and shaky. Derek's hands are on his ass, squeezing, and his mouth is hot on Stiles' collar bone. "Because lake and clothes and civilization. Crap."

He can feel the flat press of teeth to his pulse, the curve of Derek's lips. "No being smug," Stiles orders, with a flick to Derek's ear. " _I_ made _you_ come this time. _I'm_ the smug one."

"Of course," Derek says, but his teeth around Stiles' nipple disagree, and Stiles shoves himself away from Derek.

"I know I'm irresistible," he says with a hand over his heart, already missing Derek's weight between his legs. "But I'm also wrinkly. And _tired_. And next time, we're totally doing it in a bed. With a mattress and pillows and your awesome comforter."

"Okay," Derek agrees easily, then his eyebrows dip and his smile turns predatory. Stiles' blood should run cold, but it really, _really_ doesn't, oh god. "Race you," he says and dives into the water before Stiles can protest.


End file.
